Purely on a spring lark the other day, or simple folly, I Google-viewed my old house and garden in Maine and briefly lived to regret it.
With apologies to Mr. Eliot, during the 15 years we lived on a coastal hill in Maine, April really was the cruelest of months, far more fickle than anything he knew in England -- teasingly warm one minute, biting cold the next, with brave green crocus shoots poking through the hoarfrost one morning followed by a foot of new snow falling the next, days alternating between mud and ice, sun and gloom, and me the whole while dreaming of spring back home in Carolina.
Transcendental tree-hugger Henry Thoreau once observed that a man who walks through the woods for the positive effect of the life of a forest on one's soul is likely to be regarded as a loafer, whereas a fellow who surveys the woods for its uncut timber is broadly hailed as an enterprising citizen, a man in quest of a better world.
On a cold Friday in late January of 1975, I skipped a senior history seminar class at college and drove three hours home to surprise my father for his 60th birthday, bringing him a bottle of his favorite Napoleon brandy.
Owing to a pitiful track record on the matter, I gave up making New Year resolutions years ago.
As the most popular period drama in PBS history prepares to make its third-season debut on Masterpiece Theater, we politely offer our own tribute.
It was getting dark and I was cold, standing outside the music shop where I’d just taken my last guitar lesson for the year, waiting for my dad to pick me up after his office Christmas party.
He’s my oldest friend and might be the closest thing I know to a Renaissance man.
For the first time in five years I don’t have a child of mine settling into college this September.
Sometime in middle August, for the first time in three years, we’re taking a house at the beach for a week.